


Possession

by et_cetera55



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-03
Updated: 2010-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/et_cetera55/pseuds/et_cetera55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/350733">Obedience</a> - it’s not strictly necessary to read that first because, hey, it’s PWP, but there are a few references to it in this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possession

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine and sadly never will be
> 
> Beta’d by the _amazing_ [](http://warriorbot.livejournal.com/profile)[**warriorbot**](http://warriorbot.livejournal.com/) \- thank you so much! Any mistakes you find are a result of my last minute panic!

 

Lestrade can’t help but roll his eyes as he thinks back over the day whilst climbing the steps to his flat. They had been checking out a seedy nightclub (although as far as he was concerned, ‘brothel’ would have been a far more accurate description) and he had been interviewing the staff. A young boy – looked no more than fifteen although he assured Lestrade he was nineteen – offered him a drink (which of course he refused) and made small talk about the previous weekend’s football. Lestrade had at first assumed that the boy had something he wanted to tell him and was just taking his time summoning up the courage to do it, but after twenty minutes of irrelevant chatting he had got nothing of note. He had handed over his card, told the lad to ring him if he remembered anything and had left with his team, hoping if the boy did know something he would get in touch eventually.

Sally and the others had spent the rest of the day making jokes about how the lad was coming on to him. Well, maybe the boy had been, a little, but Lestrade knows it had only been a (very) desperate attempt to pull himself out of the miserable existence he was currently leading.

Sighing to himself, Lestrade fishes his keys out of his pocket and puts them in the lock – the door is already unlocked. He has a strong suspicion about who might have unlocked it, but that doesn’t stop his copper instincts from ringing alarm bells. He slowly pushes the door open.

His suspicion is correct – Mycroft is sitting at his kitchen table. He has taken his jacket, waistcoat and tie off and his shirt sleeves are rolled to above his elbows. On the table in front of him is _that_ knife, the blade glinting.

Lestrade drags his gaze away from the knife, looking up at Mycroft once more. Something is different about him tonight, something in the way he holds himself, almost as if he is tense… but he has no time for further analysis –

“Bedroom.”

Mycroft’s silken tone sears straight through him, making every muscle quiver in anticipation.

“Strip. On your back on the bed. Arms above your head, wrists together. You have until I count to ten. One.”

Swallowing hard Lestrade moves to the bedroom as swiftly as he can whilst at the same time trying not to look like he is rushing. He can pretend, even if it is only to himself, that he still has some control left. (He ignores the small voice that tells him even he doesn’t believe that anymore.)

“Two.”

He kicks his shoes off as he passes through his bedroom door, wincing slightly as in his haste he is a little too enthusiastic and one goes flying across the room into the wall.

“Three.”

 

His fingers trembling slightly, Lestrade yanks at his belt, quickly undoing the buckle. In one movement trousers and boxers are shoved to the floor and wobbling slightly he hops out of them, trying to ignore the painful (and yet slightly pleasurable) sensation as the waistband catches his rapidly growing erection.

“Four.”

Lestrade has already shrugged his jacket off and is fumbling desperately with his shirt – all dexterity having apparently abandoned him – when he hears the softly purred,

“Five.”

Swearing under his breath Lestrade tugs harder on his shirt, feeling relief rather than annoyance as the last button pops off and drops to the floor, rolling away somewhere.

“Six.”

The shirt finally joins his jacket on the floor. Bedroom. Stripped. Next was…

“Seven.”

Lestrade almost throws himself onto the bed, shifting along so he is lying in the centre of it, looking up at the ceiling. He breathes a sigh of relief, congratulating himself on managing it.

“Eight…”

This time the purr is tinged with menace. Something is not right. He has done something wrong. He tries to ignore the growing apprehension as he thinks back to his instructions – bedroom… strip… on back…

“Nine…”

Lestrade flings his arms above his head, banging his fingers hard against the metal bars of the headboard in his haste, but he finds he doesn’t care as Mycroft softly calls,

“Ten.”

Lestrade stares up at the ceiling, listening to the quiet scrape of the chair as Mycroft stands, to the soft pad of his footsteps as he gets closer and closer. He feels the slight movement of air across his bare chest that alerts him to the presence beside the bed.

“Look at me,” Mycroft growls.

Lestrade tilts his head so he can see Mycroft’s face, so blank and impassive that Lestrade would think him wholly unaffected if his eyes – dark with desire – weren’t giving him away. Mycroft smiles.

“Good. Keep your arms above your head. Don’t move them.”

Lestrade doesn’t need to hear the ‘or else you will be left like this’ to recognise the threat behind the words. A threat he knows Mycroft will not hesitate to carry out.

Mycroft brings the knife up into Lestrade’s vision, rolling it slowly in his hand.

“Keep watching my face.”

The knife is lowered and Lestrade gasps as he feels the flat of the blade suddenly cold against the base of his neck. Mycroft’s smile disappears, replaced by a look of pure concentration. Lestrade holds his breath, waiting.

The knife rotates and tilts until the point of it is resting on the soft skin below his Adam’s apple. Lestrade can feel the fear run through him, chilling him, but it is laced at the same time with anticipation. His cock is throbbing with excitement even as his heart is racing with trepidation. They have done this only once before and then it had been fantastic but tonight… tonight Mycroft is wearing some new expression: desire seems to be warring with a steely determination. Lestrade doesn’t know what result Mycroft is determined to achieve.

As the point of the knife is slowly drawn down and to one side Lestrade feels the sharp tingle it leaves in its wake. It is both slightly painful and slightly pleasurable and much as Lestrade feels like that should disturb him it just makes him want more. As the knife traces a path around first one nipple, then the other he can feel both of them tightening, hardening. His gaze is still directed at Mycroft’s face but he can barely focus on it now through the pleasure coursing through him. He knows his breaths are coming harsh and ragged but he has no more control over them than he does over his now almost painfully hard cock. He wants so much to move, to push up hard into the blade – but he knows he cannot.

The knife moves back to the centre of his chest once more and then slowly starts to move further down.

“What do you want?” Mycroft whispers, still staring at the knife.

“Cut me. Mark me,” Lestrade answers without thinking.

Mycroft turns his face towards Lestrade. His gaze, burning with intensity, bores into Lestrade.

“You want me to mark you? As my own?”

Lestrade’s throat is dry, his palms sweaty. His mind is screaming at him to say no, but he just nods.

“Tell me,” Mycroft coaxes with a whisper. “Say it.”

Lestrade swallows. He takes a breath and whispers back, haltingly, “I want you to mark me as yours.”

Mycroft lets out a sharp hiss – the incredibly tight control the man normally keeps over his desires disappearing for an instant – and then looks back down to the knife.

Every muscle in Lestrade’s body feels tensed and coiled as the knife moves slowly towards his hip, the tip still only resting tentatively on the skin.

The first cut hurts much less than he expected and he feels almost cheated of the pain he wanted. He almost looks down to check that Mycroft did actually push the blade down hard enough but stops himself just in time. He was told to watch Mycroft’s face. Any disobedience would bring a punishment Lestrade is not prepared to even consider right now.

Mycroft turns back to face him, the knife held completely still in his hand with the blade still touching Lestrade’s skin. Lestrade catches a fleeting glimpse of concern before it is replaced by a small delighted smile.

“You can watch,” Mycroft purrs what sounds almost like a taunt.

Lestrade instantly looks to his hip. Mycroft did press the knife down hard enough. The blood oozing slowly out of the vertical cut attests to that. Lestrade blows his breath out through pursed lips, trying to calm himself down as Mycroft repositions the knife.

The pain only increases slightly with the next three cuts (two oblique, the last vertical) but it is enough to stop Lestrade from coming there and then, for which he is grateful. He wants this sensation to last for as long as possible.

When Mycroft puts the knife down to one side Lestrade lets his eyes flicker to Mycroft’s. Mycroft is flushed, his lips bright red, his eyes almost black. The man looks undone.

Mycroft slowly traces a finger over the cuts, gathering up the blood welling there. Lestrade watches, transfixed, as Mycroft slowly lifts the finger to his mouth and licks it, sucks it. Lestrade shuts his eyes briefly, trying to think of something, anything that will counteract how obscenely hot he finds this. He snaps them open again when he feels a warm wet tongue tracing over his hip. Mycroft is licking slowly over the wounds, as if trying to lap up every drop of blood. Lestrade shuts his eyes again and moans softly.

His moan becomes a cry as a saliva-slicked finger is pressed against his arse, slowly pushing into him. Lestrade clenches his fists around the bars of the headboard, trying not to buck, trying not to move at all as the finger rubs over _that_ spot again and again sending waves of such intense pleasure through him he can barely see. He is too close now. He’s not going to be able to stop himself. If Mycroft just pushes his finger in once more…

But he doesn’t.

In fact Mycroft backs away from him completely.

Lestrade blinks to clear his vision and sees that somehow Mycroft, despite his ministrations to Lestrade, has managed to strip from the waist down. The man has even managed to grab some lube from somewhere and is slicking it down over his extremely obvious erection. Lestrade doesn’t dare move, he barely dares breathe. One wrong move and Mycroft could decide to leave.

Mycroft smiles at him once more, only this time it is predatory, possessive even. Lestrade watches silently as he positions himself on the bed between Lestrade’s legs, lifting them to hook them around his waist. He lines himself up with Lestrade’s arse, spreads Lestrade’s cheeks and _pushes_. Lestrade can’t stop the groan that escapes him as he is stretched and filled with Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft transfers his hands to Lestrade’s hips, one thumb digging into the knife marks that are still oozing slightly.

Then he starts to move.

Mycroft fucks him hard into the bed, every thrust hitting his prostate just right. It is too much. Clenching every muscle and shouting out loud with the intensity of it all Lestrade comes hard, losing all awareness of anything except the pleasure pulsing through him. He is barely even aware of the sharp grunt as Mycroft finally loses control and comes inside him, panting hard.

When Mycroft starts to pull out of him, Lestrade forces his eyes open, trying to convey how fucking amazing that was with his eyes alone. Nothing is said by either of them as Mycroft puts his briefs and trousers back on, does his belt up, rolls his sleeves down. The controlled, blank expression is back in place but when Mycroft leans down to whisper roughly in Lestrade’s ear Lestrade nearly gasps at the emotion seething through the words,

“You are mine. I do _not_ share.”

With that Mycroft walks out of the room, picks his jacket, waistcoat, tie and umbrella up and moves swiftly and silently out of the flat.

Lestrade thinks he will have to start giving Sally’s card out instead of his own in the future. Or not…

 


End file.
